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  “Samuel!” David groaned loudly. “My son, my son, Samuel!” He tore at his hair with both hands and stepped up to the very edge, sobbing. For a terrifying moment, Raul thought he would leap from the cliff. But he just stood there, moaning in the wind for a long time.

  “Please tell me that you know what you’re doing, sir! Just tell me that there is a way out of this madness.”

  But David refused to respond. He hadn’t spoken since. He only paced from the tree to a large boulder thirty feet away, bursting into tears so often that Raul wondered where the tears could possibly come from.

  After an hour, just as a numbness settled in Raul’s mind, the first wail reached them from Paradise, like an arrow shot from the valley below. They both jerked their heads toward the sound.

  Raul caught his breath. Could it be a bird? Yes, it could . . .

  The cry sounded again, and Raul began to tremble. The sound came from Paradise. From Samuel. Samuel was crying out in Paradise.

  David threw himself to his knees and gripped his hair with both hands. His mouth stretched in anguish, but only small sounds broke through his swollen throat.

  The next cry carried words, surprisingly clear on the morning air: “Father! Fatherrr! Please, Father! Save me!”

  David fell apart then. He simply fell to his side and lay there on the ground, still clutching his head. The cries came again and again. But the father did nothing, could do nothing. He only wept, face twisted and body quaking.

  Raul rocked, crying. He had never imagined such pain was possible, that any living soul could endure so much sorrow and manage to keep their organs from hemorrhaging.

  For the first time in his memory, he wanted to die. He wanted everything to end.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  PARADISE

  Tuesday

  JOHNNY TORE into the hills without caring where he was going as long as it was away from the terrifying sounds in Paradise.

  But he couldn’t escape them. They drifted through the trees, and they filled his mind, pushing him faster and farther.

  Maybe he should have gone home instead of running out here. Surely his mother wasn’t part of this. He’d been so overcome by the horror on Main Street that he didn’t look for her among the others.

  Johnny pulled up, his breathing ragged. Something had changed. He looked around, lost. Tall pines leaned in the gusting wind. The sky seemed darker.

  What had changed?

  Samuel had stopped wailing.

  Johnny whipped his head back to the town. Samuel wasn’t crying—maybe they’d let him go. He turned back downhill.

  Samuel’s faint voice was calling to him. Or at least to his memory.

  You and I, Johnny. We’ll fix this town.

  Johnny found his bearings and cut through the trees, toward Smither’s Saloon. His mind played back Samuel’s voice, soft and sweet.

  In the end we will prevail, Johnny.

  Prevail, Samuel? Where did you learn words like that? I’ve got news for you.We’re not prevailing here.

  He burst through the trees behind the saloon, slid to a stop, and listened carefully over the pounding of his heart. A muffled cry came from his right, in the direction of the church.

  He hurried for the back of Katie’s Nails and Tan and leaned against the back wall to catch his breath. Laughter drifted over the wind. Lead by Steve’s, Johnny thought.

  A smack and a grunt.

  Chills broke over Johnny’s skull. He eased around the building, slipped under the steps that led to Katie’s side entrance, and pried his eyes through the gaps that faced the street.

  The mob stood on the church’s front lawn and crowded the steps. They had Samuel on the concrete porch in front of the double oak doors. His body sagged between Claude and Chris, who held him by an arm.

  Johnny could see his blond head roll to one side, but the people blocked his view of Samuel’s body. A man Johnny thought might be Dr. Malone reached out and slapped the boy somewhere on his body.

  Johnny withdrew and slumped to his haunches against the wall. Another thud, another grunt. He buried his head between his knees and began to sob quietly.

  He could hear the sounds when his ears weren’t covered by his arms. More thudding blows, more helpless cries, and then mostly garbled shouting and laughter. A dozen times Johnny wanted to run, almost did run. But he couldn’t move.

  The air grew quiet for a while. Maybe now they were letting him go.

  Johnny poked his head around the corner and peered through the gap again. He could see Samuel now, from head to foot.

  They held Samuel up against the solid oak doors, with his arms spread and his head lolling on his chest. Johnny watched in horror as Roland strolled up casually and slugged Samuel in the stomach with his fist. Samuel grunted, and the boy turned around.

  Johnny’s friend walked to the circle’s edge and stood next to a woman who stared ahead, face whitewashed and barely recognizable, but there,within five paces of Samuel’s sagging body. The woman was Johnny’s mother. Every muscle in Johnny’s body froze at the sight. He knelt under the steps, eyes wide, heart slamming madly, unable to move. His mind insisted that he had to get away.

  Mom?

  Wanna trip, baby?

  Steve Smither stepped into the circle, gripping one of his sharp stakes low like a spear. A grin split his jaw and he braced himself.

  The rest of the mob stood perfectly still, expressionless. The wind whipped their hair to the south.

  Steve lowered his head and stared at Samuel. Johnny tried to pull away then—he really did. But his muscles . . .

  Samuel’s eyes suddenly opened, bright and blue, and he stared past the crowd, directly at Johnny.

  Steve Smither lunged forward and shoved his stake at the boy’s side, up under his rib cage into his chest.

  It sounded like a plunger. Samuel gasped and raised to his toes, face white with shock. Blood poured from the wound, over Steve’s fists, and to the ground.

  Then the boy screamed.

  But this time Samuel’s scream was different. A blinding white light rushed from his mouth. Johnny watched in amazement as the shaft of light blazed over the heads of the gathered killers. It cut down the middle of the town, over the charred remains of the car that Claude had burned, and smashed into Smither’s Saloon.

  The building imploded in a ball of dust. But no sound.

  Only Samuel’s scream, which wasn’t stopping.

  The beam of light sliced to the right, leveling buildings in the same puff of dust as it touched them. Katie’s Nails and Tan vanished. All Right Convenience was vaporized. The old Starlight Theater, already a black skeleton, turned to white powder and settled flat.

  In a matter of ten seconds, the whole southern half of the town was leveled.

  And then the scream fell silent, and the beam of light disappeared.

  Johnny spun his head back to the church.

  Samuel slumped over the stake and was still.

  He’s dead.

  A ball of fire exploded in Johnny’s head and shot through his nerves in one blinding flash. He slumped to his right side, and his mind went blank.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  THE MONASTERY

  Tuesday

  BILLY JERKED upright. A pain flashed through his chest, and he lifted his pen from the page, surprised. Did it come from the killing of Samuel or the death of Samuel?

  He reached down to the floor, scooped some worm salve in his palm, and slapped it on his chest.

  Of course, the killing and the death were one and the same, weren’t they? No, not really. That was the problem—they carried different meanings. Meanings that now began to flash in Billy’s mind.

  The killing. Yes, the killing came from his pen as it bit angrily into white paper, inflaming sick hearts. What did you think you were doing, coming to my town, Samuel? You wanna see what happens to stuck-up kids who try to ruin my fun? Wanna see what it feels like to trip? Wanna die? Huh? I’ll show you, you puke!r />
  The whole thing went down perfectly, like a carefully choreographed dance deserving of thundering applause and satisfaction.

  But the satisfaction wasn’t flowing. Not even dribbling.

  Samuel is dead.

  Yes, I killed him. Billy began to shake.

  The killing had been one thing, but there was the death. And it felt like the death of writing.

  Billy lifted his head and peered over the railing at the library below. Thirty-four children sat upright, pens suspended over paper, looking about as if they had just awakened from a long dream. Not a single one continued to write.

  Billy’s eyes swung to his right, where Darcy stared at him with wide eyes. The story has ended. We have written the end.

  Then another thought blasted through his mind. Maybe they hadn’t ended the story. Maybe not at all.

  Maybe Samuel had ended the story.

  CHAPTER FORTY - FIVE

  PARADISE

  Tuesday

  A LOUD clink sounded in his head. Someone had taken a nail and hammer to his skull.

  Clink, clink, clink.

  Come on, boy, wake up!

  Clink, clink, clink.

  Try his forehead, Doctor. Clink on his forehead. See if that wakes him.

  It slowly occurred to Johnny that the sound wasn’t in his head. It was on the wind, like they were building a railroad through Paradise. Trains were coming to Paradise. Maybe they would bring some help. Some more cops to hang on the trees.

  Or maybe it was coming from the church. Wasn’t there something bad going on at the church?

  Johnny opened his eyes and peered through a gap at the bottom of the steps. The town was half gone. Reduced to lumps of dust and ash. Claude and his gang stood where the old theater used to be and kicked dust. But he didn’t care about them anymore.

  He turned his head to look at the church. The crowd had left. Only Steve remained. He had backed up and was staring at his handiwork.

  Samuel was there, stapled to the solid-oak church doors. They had driven two metal stakes through his shoulders and into the wood. Wide trails of blood had flowed down his sides, pooled on the floor at his feet, and run over the concrete steps.

  Johnny rolled over, clambered to his feet, and lumbered toward the alley. He gripped the rear corner of the building and vomited.

  I think they killed him. Yes, they most definitely killed him.

  Johnny wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, turned into the alley, and staggered into the forest.

  WANNA TRIP, baby?

  He’d tripped, all right. He’d tripped real good.

  It was the only thought that passed through Steve’s mind as he stared at the boy’s dead body on the church door. Something wasn’t right about what had happened here, he figured that much, but it was all he figured.

  Was he upset? No, not really. The kid had it coming. He had tried to ruin a good thing, and that wasn’t part of the plan. Steve wasn’t sure what the plan was really, but this kid wasn’t in it. Or maybe this was the plan, killing this boy.

  He stared at the bloody stake in his right hand. A wave of nausea swept over him. Then passed.

  “Quite something, isn’t it?”

  Steve turned to the voice. Black stood with his hands on his hips, all dressed up in black without a spot of dirt on him. His blue eyes were fixed on the church doors where the boy hung.

  “Yeah,” Steve said.

  Black looked into his eyes and flashed a tempting smile. “Makes you want to do it all over again.”

  Steve felt his head nod once. “Yeah.” There was some truth to that. He might not want to do it again right away, but a faint hint of desire pulled at his heart.

  “Yeah,” he said again.

  “I’m free, baby,” Black said, looking back at the boy. “I do believe that I’m free.”

  “Yeah,” Steve said. This time he had no idea what Black was talking about.

  “Do you know what we’ve done here, Steve? Hmm? Do you know how far we’ve come in seven short days?”

  Steve couldn’t really remember that far back. He looked at the saloon that he used to own. That whole part of town was gone, but he didn’t mind. He had his stakes, didn’t he?

  Another wave of nausea hit his gut, then passed.

  “Well, I’ve got good news, buddy boy. It’s just the beginning.”

  “It is?”

  “Do you know what we have to do now?”

  Steve tried to think of an answer but couldn’t. “No.”

  “We have to kill the rest.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Every one of them. Starting with Johnny. We’ll have to find him first. He gave us the slip. But we will, and when we do, we’ll do it again.”

  Steve just stared at him. He didn’t know what to think about that. But then maybe he did. If Black said that’s what they had to do, then that was what they had to do.

  “Yeah,” he finally said.

  Black chuckled and winked. “That’s my boy. Take a break. Celebrate.”

  “Umm . . . when are we?”

  “When are we what? Say it.”

  “Killing.”

  “That’s better,” Black said. “Six hours. We’ll start the killing in six hours.” He lowered his arms, turned his back, and walked away.

  He thrust an arm out toward the dead boy and spoke without looking back. “And get rid of that body. I don’t want to see it again.”

  JOHNNY SAT on an outcropping of rocks just above Paradise and cried. Below him lay the remains of a town that only seven days ago had been his home. Now it was a graveyard.

  He had never felt so desperate in his life. He either had to go to Delta or back to the monastery now. The monastery was closer, but with Samuel dead, he didn’t know what waited up there. Billy might have killed them all. Delta was farther, and he would have to walk.

  The fact that his mother was still down in Paradise prevented him from taking either option. He didn’t know what to do, so he just hugged his legs to his chest and cried.

  Then he lay down on his side, curled up in a ball, and tried to lose himself in a safe corner of his mind. If there was one left.

  CHAPTER FORTY - SIX

  THE MONASTERY

  Tuesday afternoon

  RAUL HEARD the rap on his door. It sounded like a woodpecker searching for entrance to his skull. He looked up from the chair in which he’d collapsed, exhausted. According to the clock on the wall it was three in the afternoon.

  Samuel’s wails came back to him. Unless it had all been a nightmare. No . . . no, it had actually happened. The world had come to an end. At least Samuel’s world had come to an end. And David had been sentenced to a life of regret.

  “Yes, one moment, please.”He stood and took a deep breath, straightening his shirt.

  The books had failed. Which meant that the project had failed. And worse, much worse, Billy was still in the dungeons with the books at his fingertips. Somehow, no matter what the cost, the monks had to destroy the monastery and, if necessary, the children.

  The overseers had met without David late morning and agreed. They would wait until morning, but then they would do whatever they could to wipe out what they’d created here.

  The books were limited to the monastery and the children in the monastery. If they could destroy this place, they could remove the threat. That’s where they would begin.

  “Come.”

  The door opened and Andrew stood in the frame. “I’m sorry, Raul, but it’s urgent. David insists we come immediately.”

  “David? Now?”

  “Right away, in his study.”

  Andrew hurried away.

  What could he possibly offer David now? No words would suffice; no gesture could comfort him in the wake of his son’s death. In fact, their decision to destroy David’s life work would surely make things worse.

  Raul left his room and climbed the stairs, fighting off stark images that lingered. After the wails ceased, Da
vid lay on the stone slab overlooking Paradise for another hour, like a dead man. Twice Raul knelt over him to check his breathing. But David grunted him away.

  Black clouds pressed low over the town below. The day was the darkest in Raul’s memory, both physically and spiritually.

  David finally pushed himself to his feet, looked about, dazed, and returned to the monastery.

  Raul had followed him. David showed no further signs of remorse. He simply slogged his way up the mountain, up through the monastery, and to his chambers, where he closed the door.

  And now David wished to see Andrew and him.

  Raul followed Andrew into the study, closed the door, and faced David. Unlike David’s bedroom, everything here was in perfect order, including David. Gone were the bedclothes. He wore his long stately black robe customary for formal visits. His hair was neatly groomed and the stubble had been shaved from his chin.

  Had the man gone mad? Or was he simply suffering an utter denial of all that had just happened?

  Andrew stood behind one of the guest chairs in front of David’s desk.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” Raul dipped his head.

  “Please, have a seat.” He motioned to the chairs.

  They sat.

  David had withdrawn the first history book—the one he showed them three days earlier for the first time. Raul shifted his gaze from the book to David’s eyes and found them locked on his.

  “You’re wondering if I’ve lost my mind. Perhaps I have. I lost my son Christopher. Then my wife. Now Samuel. I’m within my rights.”

  Raul glanced at Andrew.

  “But I don’t believe I have. I believe I have been drawn into the raw creative power of free will. I believe I have been tested and have proven myself worthy of that power.”

  “Samuel is dead,” Raul said. It sounded crass, and he immediately regretted having said it. But it was also true.

  “He is,” David said. “And why is he dead? Because of the books. Because of the power behind the books. Because the evil in the children’s minds was too strong for them to ignore and resist. But isn’t that the course we expected of spoiled minds?”

  “At some level,” Andrew said. “But surely you didn’t expect this. Even with the books, this was never the point.”